


All Heroes Must Die

by truc



Series: Parallel [2]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Dark Bruce Wayne, Depressed Clark Kent, Hero Lex Luthor, M/M, Manipulator Bruce Wayne, NO rape, No Sex, So is Lex Luthor and Clark Kent, Suicide, Teen Titans are mentioned, The Justice League is in trouble, Twisted Bruce Wayne, alternative universe, and murders, implied suicide, no happy ending, what if universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22213633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truc/pseuds/truc
Summary: In a world in which Lex Luthor is a hero and; Bruce Wayne is not, things go very differently.***"Stop wasting my time with your manipulations," Lex snapped more impatiently."I am not manipulating anyone," Bruce smoothly lied, his face appearing too soft for such an asshole.Lex glared at him, knowing Bruce knew he knew Bruce was manipulating everyone he encountered. "I know how you operate, Bruce; I've investigated more than a few of your involvements. You narrate them- your victims- such fanciful lies to gain their trust. You tell them how society or people failed them by objectifying them, by ignoring them, by being indifferent or insincere with them. Then, you tell them how they failed society or someone specific. You play those two strings like an expert until they crack."
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Justice League, Bruce Wayne & Lex Luthor, Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent, Clark Kent & Justice League, Clark Kent/Lex Luthor, Lex Luthor & Justice League
Series: Parallel [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630174
Comments: 26
Kudos: 83





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A (Small) Grudge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11954580) by [truc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/truc/pseuds/truc). 



> This is basically my "A (Small) Grudge" what if AU. Because different choices are made, this world is very different. You don't need to read "A (Small) Grudge" to understand what's going on.

Even from his blanket nest in the bedroom, Clark can hear the distinct noise of the television.

"The public is still reeling from the existence of the teenager justice league. The video leaked last month shows two teenagers dying at the hands of their colleague. The Justice League refuses to inform us what happened to the murderous child or where they are. Although they have admitted the Teen Titans were a team associated with them, they refuse to give more details on what transpired a month ago."

The blankets' delicious softness guilt-trips Clark. Closing his eyes, he can remember the scene that had greeted them in the Titan tower: a dead Aqualad and dying Donna Troy laid on the ground. Red Arrow was wounded; Miss Martian seemed heartbroken over her actions.

Since then, Miss Martian had been locked down with only her 'uncle' to visit her. She couldn't explain what had transpired to her; there was no mind-control nor magic. She'd talk about a kind visitor, one who had understood her.

It doesn't quite matter now. The Teen Titans were in shambles and: the Justice League was under suspicion.

"Clark, I know you're awake. Get up; we've got work to do," Lex Luthor orders as he throws back Clark's blanket.

Clark sighs and looks at his lover. "Lex. I can't do this."

There is a slight hesitation in Lex's face, but it quickly consolidates in anger. "Get up. They need hope. You can't wallow in self-pity. That's not what heroes are supposed to do."

Clark snorts. Lex thinks he's depressed. He's wrong: depression is not what's tormenting him.

He only wants to be left alone in his soft and warm bed. Here, he could dream of a world where kids don't kill each other and; he doesn't have to explain it to everyone.

He remembers the signs.

"Don't use children in your wars!" "Against Child Soldiers!" "Superheroes = Monsters." "Their blood is on your hands!" "Regulate Superheroes! Or lock them up!"

Their comments were even worse.

Superman had to reassure everyone. Their faith in him had transformed into hatred. "Get rid of aliens! They're the cause of the violence!" "Send them back!"

Lex's face hardens. "You want to give up, now, that the world needs you? We've got villains to catch and people to save."

Some days, Superman envies Lex's competitive streak; his vanity seemed stronger than Superman's optimism. It was an undepletable energy source.

Clark rubs his eyes. "What do you have?"

Lex sits on the edge of their bed. "Not much to go on. Annoyances are still cropping up. It's time for you to do good deeds. Surely there must be a train wreck or flooding or forest fires you could help with?"

Clark briefly closes his eyes. "Forest fire in California. Again."

Lex waves him off. "Go. You need to help someone. Anyone."

Uh.

Lex must be desperate to cheer him up. Usually, he'd insist on Superman doing his 'three-point-check' before assisting rescue teams. It had only happened a few times that villains had used his predictable attendance against him. Of course, Lex couldn't let any of these incidents go.

Amidst Lex's growing concern, Clarks yearns for indifference. Reassuring Lex's paranoid mind that he's okay takes too much effort. "I'll go," Clark assures him.

Lex's frown doesn't ebb away, but he still leans in and gives Clark a peck on the lips. "Good. That's all I ask."

Lex looks at him dress up at regular speed; there's a sadness in his eyes Clark can't help but feel guilty. As much as Lex pretends he hates Clark's superpowers, some scientific or art-related parts of his brain resent its absence.

Lex has always been a complicated person.

Maybe that's why Clark fell in love with him and his infinite paradoxes.

When Superman is dressed, Lex nods approvingly. "I have to go, but I'm sure I can finish my afternoon meeting early enough for an evening together." Even though there is nothing dangerous or accusing in the bald man's tone, Clark feels tendrils of personal guilt layered over his mountain of professional guilt. Since last's month's massacre, Clark hasn't been in the lovemaking mood. Their lovers' evenings, previously notoriously amorously entangled, ended up being quiet and sexless. It is another of Clark's failure.

Clark speeds to his lover's side and gives him a tight hug. Lex returns it to him. "Would you prefer a bath or a shower?" The bald man asks.

"Bath sounds fantastic." Superman holds on to this physical contact as if it were the last barrier for his emotional equilibrium.

Lex mutters, "You and your bubble baths." The light teasing would usually warm Superman's heart at its familiarity; now, instead, it sounds like another one of his flaws, of the things Lex puts up for the farmer boy he's always been.

Clark gives his lover a peck on Lex's forehead and forces himself to release him. "I'll see you later." Hesitatingly, Superman flies out of the room.

People who didn't have flight powers didn't understand the total vulnerability of travelling in such a fashion. If Clark could only keep one ability, he'd choose his flight power. Maybe he should feel guilty that he's so selfish and self-serving.

He hears the cries of a lost child and veers towards its source. There, amongst the vastness of the forest, he sees a young child. Catching her, he carries her to her desperate parents and; both pull their child into an embrace. They all cry, laugh and smile erratically. Dumbly, Superman watches over them, the strain of his burden growing smaller with the passing minutes.

The girl's mother looks at him with sincere thankfulness, lips quivering. Although no thanks are said, Clark can read the depth of her gratitude in her eyes.

He smiles at her, finally feeling like a hero again.

Lex was right yet again. Sometimes, saving people saves you.


	2. Medicine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for illicit substance abuse, alcohol abuse and suicide. Mental health issues are also discussed.

_If anyone were to ask him, Roy would have denied he was drunk. Except, nobody cared enough about a scrawly teenager drinking in the corner of the filthy tavern to ask. When he saw a sleazy, purple-wearing, mustached man ambled his way, Roy amended his statement: "maybe perverts would care."_

_Roy barely glanced at the guy when he took the seat opposite to him. Already, his common sense alerted him to the fact he was an underaged, slightly tipsy, stranger in Gotham's slimiest district. Anyone approaching him was, in all likelihood, a total scumbag trying to profit from his 'debauched' state, either with unpaid labour, prostitution or errand boy._

_That wasn't so different from his former job, Roy decided. Fuck Oliver and his illusionary promises._

_"Funny place to sleep, kid," the weirdo commented with a punchable grin._

_"Fuck off."_

_The black-haired played with an unlit match. "'tis a free country, kid."_

_Roy glared at the guy from the table level. Obnoxious cocky middle-aged man. As if Roy didn't see enough of that at home- not that he would any longer. "I'll fucking beat you up if you don't walk away," he threatened the scum._

_"Hold your horses, kid. I'm just a good old Samaritan. Bar's closing in an hour. Thought you could use tips on how to survive here."_

_Roy wiped his throbbing head from the disgusting liquid on the table, man, the guy was so loud. "Don't need them."_

_The man cocked his head, eyes looking interested in him in a freaky way. Time to leave this garbage._

_"I hope you're not planning at participating in the Underground fights tonight, kid. I heard they're doing a raid."_

_Roy stilled and frowned. How did the guy know?_

_The mustached guy shrugged. "A scraggly guy like you with red hair in this tavern? An oversized sweatshirt is a shitty disguise. You're famous, kid. Someday, some of the losers will stab you in the back."_

_"They are welcome to try," Roy rasped back. "Bigger dogs lost their teeth taking a bite at me."_

_"You're only top dog until you ain't. See, kid, I've been on these streets for longer than you've been sucking at your mama's tits. 'Round here, top dogs always end up at some upstate farm, if you catch my drift."_

_Roy sat upright, leaning over the table. "Stop calling me kid. Enough small-talk. What's the real reason you're talking to me if you know I can beat you up in a second?"_

_The man's lips curled in a crooked smile- the kind of smile someone who had forgotten how to smile would have smiled. "You kinda remind me of me when I was young and foolish, kid. All cocksure and on the edge for a real fight... Took me years to realize the best wins weren't found in fistfights."_

_Roy waved impatiently in his direction. "Fuck your small talk. Either spill the bean or leave me alone."_

_"Sure, sure." The man leaned obliquely back in his chair. "I see potential in you, kid. Real potential. Not as a pit fighter. As a mafia leader or drug boss... Yeah, what I'm saying, is I want to get in your favour before your rise. I'm a telephone, you see? I make contact 'tween elements."_

_"That's why you're letting me know about the raid tonight. It doesn't cost you anything, but you plan to cash that in later."_

_The man gave him another lop-sided smile. "Smart kid."_

_Roy's head was buzzing, and not only because of his earlier consumption of alcohol and heroin. The guy's interest made more sense, nevertheless, he felt shivers run in his hurt back. Keep him talking._

_"What's your name?"_

_"They call me Matches around here."_

_"Because of the match in your mouth?"_

_"That and I'm the best arsonist this city's ever seen. Starting fires is my thing."_

_Roy suddenly missed his Arsenal costume and the equipment. He could have recorded this guy's confession and brought him to justice. Instead, besides the clothes on his back, he only had a broken cellphone, a few coins and a few coded contact numbers in case of an emergency._

_"You get paid to start fires?"_

_"Looking for a job?" the scumbag asked, amused._

_Roy had to make his interest sound legit. "Maybe. Kicking guys around pays the bills, but..."_

_"You looking for something glamorous? Matches is the man to ask. I've got contacts everywhere. Mafia bosses, hitmen, assassins, police officers, judges, commissioners... Even the fucking Justice League."_

_"The what?" Roy had to have misunderstood the guy, there was no way anyone from the League would deal with this trash without turning him in. At least, that's what Roy used to believe._

_"Justice League. They're not as perfect as they claim to be, that's for sure."_

_Was the guy simply boasting for the sake of boasting or was it true? Damn it, Roy couldn't tell either way from the Cheshire smile tossed his way. Even the buzz in his head seemed to be intensifying._

_"But enough of me, kid. What's your specialty other than fistfights?"_

_Undercover work, he wanted to say. It had once been true, he had even taken upon smoking and heroin to dismantle a contraband ring. How had Ollie repaid him for his hard work?_

_He had kicked him out of the house with the clothes on his back after he'd found him injecting heroin following the Teen Titans massacre. No money, no food. Nothing, but the clothes on his back and haunting memories of evil._

_Fuck Ollie._

_Choosing Gotham where the scum of the scum assembled, was his way of giving Ollie the finger._

_Besides, he deserved to be with them; he was the trashiest piece of scum around. As the leader of the Teen Titans, he should have been the first to die, not the only survivor except Miss Martian. A captain should stay on his sinking ship until all passengers were safe. Roy hadn't even gotten the dying part right._

_Then, even though Roy had been trained for years to be a vigilante, the big guys had all announced that, henceforth, they would intercept and stop any children or teenagers under the age of 18 to participate in vigilante-related activities. At the end of the day, since Miss Martian was imprisoned and the others were dead, that only excluded him from vigilantism._

_Pathetic. Useless._

_"I'm good at hitting targets," Roy said._

_"Long-distance assassin is always in demand in Gotham. You just say the words and I'll pass it around."_

_He must have seen Roy's minute wince because his face morphed to pity. "Say, kid, I know it's none of my business, but, if you're not up for dirty feats, you should go home. Things have a way of getting nasty, here. It'll such a waste for a young sapling such as yourself to end up in Gotham." Nasty Jersey's accent, there, Roy thought._

_"I have no home."_

_The black-haired sleazebag looked at him as if he could see through everything he was. "Shame that is, kid. I can see from the lightbulb in your eyes that you're wanted."_

_"You don't know what you're talking about," Roy snorted angrily._

_"They want you to be someone you're not, that's the catch, ain't it right, kid? They'll miss you when you're gone."_

_"I've been gone for a week and they didn't even text or call me!" Roy yelled, no longer caring about who could hear him._

_The older man shook his head. "Of course not, kid, they think you're throwing a tantrum and you'll eventually come to your senses. Not the first time I have seen this. Not the last, I reckon. That's not what I meant. They always miss them when they're gone, gone; they don't realize people are better different from their ideal than entirely gone. They're too stupid to see that."_

_Roy frowned at him. "They wouldn't care even if I died like a rat in a gutter."_

_Matches chewed his match. "Don't kill yourself's my point, kid. There's no coming back from gone, gone. I'm sure you'll eventually mend bridges or kill the bastards. Dying's kind of a sad way to prove a point."_

_"They don't care," Roy raged. "At all!"_

_Matches looked condescendingly at him. "To each his own opinion. I'm just telling you; most people aren't unaffected to their loved ones' fate; they just believe they can shape it as they want."_

_The guy leaned forward. "Take your fate in your hands, kid. Let me know what job you're looking for. You're fire, kid, don't forget it. As I said, assassins are hot right now; it may be the ride to higher standings." He hit the table twice with the palm of his hand and left Roy alone._

_Fuck Roy's life, stuck listening to a low life's advice, fighting at an underground ring with increasingly serious injuries. At least, he still had a cache of heroin._

_Now that the alcohol was wearing off, Roy needed it more than ever._

***

"Good morning, Dr. Luthor," Mercy greets him as he walks in his office.

"Good morning, Mercy. Report."

Unblinking, the woman pushes a pile of documents his way. "The good news is: Superman has just saved a kid-filled bus, rescued a family from deathly fire and stopped a plane from crashing."

Lex feels relief; even though it was a temporary solution, his pet talk had worked like a charm. If Clark could keep it together a bit longer, they may yet save the League.

"What's the bad news?"

Mercy pulls one file from the pile in front of him. "The betastidvirus may have evolved. Somehow, our vaccine no longer works."

Lex pinches his lips together as he skims through the file. "This is the fourth time something like this has happened. Any reports from my special investigative team on the subject?"

Mercy shakes her head. "They still haven't responded to my last inquiry. I've sent a team to check up on their wellbeing."

Lex hates the uncertainty; the lingering premonition the viruses' development to counter his vaccination is due to human or nonhuman interference. Sending a secretive private detective team six months ago had not reassured him.

"Mercy, get our teams working on the new strain of the virus. We barely restrained the last outbreak from becoming a pandemic; we can't afford another close call like that."

Lex already mentally outlines how to assign support to alleviate Ghana's utter lack of resources to deal with this new peril. They need more hands-on specialists; they also need food and water to provide quarantines.

"Provide them with our emergency relief fund for disease control until the International Centre for Disease Control gets involved. Cancel all my appointments today; this takes priority. Why wasn't I notified of this before?"

Mercy gives him a slightly disappointed look. "I received notification two minutes ago, Dr. Luthor. I thought it unwise to call you on your way up the elevator."

"Good to know. Get on with it. I'll do a quick update on my files, analyze this threat and, in an hour, I'll join the conference you're setting up with the specialists. Share the information beforehand. Tell them this takes precedence over whatever they are currently doing."

Mercy nods and leaves the room without further ado.

***

_Roy stumbled in the street, one hand on his side, the other on his knife. Since his arrival in Gotham, although he had always managed to fight them off, criminals had jumped him a few times. Tonight, his unsteady demeanour marked him as easy prey in this cut-throat part of town. Thankfully, he had some experience fighting off aggressors while battling under the influence._

_Heroin withdrawals and alcohol hangover didn't mix well. However, Roy arrived 'home'- an abandoned drafty house with a long and dubious crime-related history if the rumours were to be believed- safely. He checked up on his traps he'd set all over the house. Seeing how none had gone off, Roy crawled upstairs to his room, a windowless and suffocating room filled with his meagre belongings: clothes laid on the dirty floor, food and drinks- or what was left of it- piled in a box, documents and photos cluttered the table bed and drugs laid under the floor. His most precious possession, his bow and arrows, were hidden in another room._

_Altogether, they painted an appalling picture of his situation: discarded, homeless and addicted. Self-awareness was hell._

_And Oliver thought he was throwing a 'tantrum.'_

_Roy laid down on his clothes and looked at the ceiling: it seemed about ready to cave down on him, burying in this unknown grave. At least, then, he'd be able to sleep without heroin. At least, then, he wouldn't have to break his back wrestling low-lives or become an assassin- the total opposite of his dream._

_Sometimes, when the moon was out, he could remember his dreams from the time he had spent on the reserve: the ones of watching a waterfall and the ones of meeting his spirit animal. Then, when Queen had taken him in, he had dreamt of becoming a hero, of becoming the face of light and hope. Teen Titans had been a childish endeavour, but a means to be taken seriously by the League. One day, he had decided, under Ollie's tutelage, he'd be one of the most respected members of the Justice League. He'd grow to be his own man, a legend._

_His back suddenly ached in pain. Was he hemorrhaging? Either way, he was panting, desperate for relief._

_He still needed to fight tonight; his funds were low._

_Suddenly, he remembered the guy's word about a raid. Closing his eyes, Roy could picture getting arrested by police and held in jail. Since he was still a minor, they'd call his legal guardian._

_Oliver would lecture him and refuse to come. He'd say Roy was an idiot, a careless child. Maybe, he'd pay a lawyer to keep him out of the news, to secure his reputation. He would be justified in his treatment of Roy._

_Roy couldn't risk it._

***

"A.I.," Lex says, "connect me with the Fortress."

"Connecting," the robotic voice answers.

"Dr. Luthor," Jor-El answers, "to what do I owe you the pleasure?"

Always straightforward, Lex mentally wryly comments.

"I've been calling in regards to our little project of creating antidepressants that work on Kryptonians' physiology."

"Unfortunately, Dr. Luthor, the results are disappointing. Kryptonians' physiology changes considerably under your yellow sun; all cures or remedies in my annex failed to produce the needed result in your experiments."

Lex clenches his fists; he has not worked this hard to lose Clark to mental illness. "What are the results of my formulas?"

"Inconclusive."

They moved back to the starting square.

How long before Clark slumped back to their penthouse, unable to leave the bed, incapable of facing another day outside his carefully arranged nest? All attempts at therapy had left Clark unresponsive and scarily withdrawn.

Lex's hour was almost up. Soon, he'd have to attend another world-saving meeting to stave a pandemic. He didn't have time for this and the Justice League fallout on top of dealing with Clark's depression.

He has to. Nobody else could do what he was doing; nobody else could keep all the pieces from falling apart.

"Lex," a detestable voice says from the corner of his office.

Lex barely startles as he aims his eyes at the new occupant. "Bruce. What are you doing here?"

The smartly dressed man stepped out of the shadows, a grin affixed on his lips but not in his eyes. Looking around at the office like a prospective buyer in a house, Bruce strolls to his desk. "Aren't you happy to see an old friend?"

Lex thinks he had repaired this office to be impenetrable by anyone but Mercy, himself and Superman. However, he knows that's never enough with Bruce.

"What do you want, Bruce?" Lex snarls, unwilling to meander longer on pleasantries to this two-faced liar.

At another time, Lex would have thrown him out of his office, incensed by his illegal entries. However, Bruce had made the point to get revenge at his every time in his monstrous way for Lex's lack of cooperation. Over time, Lex had learned it was preferable to talk to Bruce for an hour or so than to throw him out, even if it validated the man's technique. Nevertheless, Lex's ego always felt the sting of his cowardness.

Bruce sits down and gestures, ironically amiably, for Lex to sit down. Lex pointedly remains standing.

"Lexie, we've got to catch up. I hope you're not upset that I let myself in. After all, 'mi casa es su casa.'"

Lex had once said that Bruce.

A long time ago, Bruce had been the genius and gutsy sibling Lex had always wished he had.

He now regrets every single time he had felt close to this atrocious monster. If he could kill Bruce without Clark ever knowing about it, he'd do it in a heartbeat; the world would be much better for it.

***

_Roy carefully studied his bow and arrows, relics of a dream that would never be, before hiding them again._

_He painfully crawled back to his room and peered at its ugliness, feeling as if someone was watching him._

_Nobody had sprung his elaborate traps; he was as alone as he had always been, a dying ember that couldn't ignite, a failure. Nobody had come to see it consumed to nothingness. Nobody cared. Thinking otherwise was wistful thinking._

_Tortuously, Roy prepared the needle. His back pain compounded his headache. Somehow, he was happy the room didn't have windows; Gotham- and the world- was uglier than his dilapidated room._

_Settled against the wall, Roy tried to find any meaning in his life, any purpose besides unbearable pain. His mind and body blurred too much to gather such a thought._

_Roy just hoped he had enough heroin to achieve his ultimate purpose; dying from slow starvation seemed even worse and ironic, seeing how he was such a great marksman._

_"Fuck Ollie," he chose as his parting words, strangely fitting in regards to the circumstances._

_Roy felt sleep overtake him; he succumbed as quickly as he could._

_Why fight the inevitable?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matches Malone is a canon alias for Batman/Bruce Wayne.


	3. Worthy

_Bruce cocked his head. "Lex, is stress the reason behind your sudden baldness?"_

_(Lex had been bald for at least fifteen years.)_

_"I don't have time to waste with your lies, Bruce," Lex stated, already trying to calculate what Bruce was doing here today; he was his first suspected instigator for the Teen Titans massacre and the evolving viruses incidents._

_Clark had always accused Lex of being paranoid, especially in regards to Bruce._

_"He's not always guilty of your unresolved cases," Clark had once claimed._

_Lex doubted Clark's evaluation of the situation; who else could taunt Lex from a distance, sure Lex wouldn't find the necessary evidence to lock him up?_

_(Except for trespassing. Lex knew Bruce's cold revenge dish would taste repugnant, hence why he didn't bother to lock him up on those juvenile charges. Lex yearned the callow need for pitiful revenge- despite the childishness, despite the stupidity.)_

_Bruce picked, with his calloused hands, Clark's photo from Lex's desk. In a knee-jerk reaction, Lex wanted to snatch it back, to keep Bruce from ruining this too; instead, Lex kept his cool and only glared at his former friend._

_(Bruce was baiting him; he wanted Lex to lose his composure, to make a mistake he could exploit. Bruce only had a picture in his filthy paws, nothing substantial. Lex repeated his calming mantra in his mind._ **_Don't let him under your skin or he'd devour you up._ ** _)_

_He interlaced his fingers to stop himself from physically reacting._

_"Are you engaged?" Bruce said, voice innocuous, devoid of the mockery shining in his eyes._

_(Bruce used Clark as a pawn against Lex and Lex as a pawn against Clark. Self-awareness of those facts should have made it easier for Clark and Lex to stand solidly together against Bruce. Should.)_

_"None of your business." Frustration was very hard to hold back; Lex was used to be in charge, to control the meetings: their pacing and their tempo._

_"I wouldn't want to miss your wedding for anything. Wasn't I part of the reason you met each other?"_

_(And Lex fervently wished he hadn't, that his relationship with Clark hadn't been sullied and twisted by this monster.)_

_Some days, he thought about finding the wish object and wishing to erase Bruce's entire existence even at the price of his life._

_"You should ask him in marriage, Lex. Bind your fates together forever." Bruce gave a banal gesture before smiling- smiling with his disgusting mind and not his heart. "After all, you worked so assiduously to become a virtuous person; think about your accomplishments:_ you cured cancer, _you established an international foundation for disease control, you engineered crime-fighting robots, you won the Nobel peace prize, you revolutionized alternative energy platforms and you are a respectable member of the Justice League. You really worked hard."_

 _Bruce paused dramatically in the way Lex had always hated before adding, looking dead in Lex's eyes: "A good man like you_ **deserves** _his love." He set the picture back on the desk, an unblinking gaze on his face._

_Even though Bruce had only lavished compliments at him, Lex understood his hidden message, his quiet blow, and cursed him in his mind. As precious as knowledge of what Bruce's purpose was, it didn't stop him from getting under Lex's skin, slithering all over Lex's highly organized life._

_(Lex_ **deserved** _Clark's love- as if Lex had crawled his way into Clark's heart by relentless hard work, not by genuine feelings evoked by his presence; Bruce, on the other hand, had never done anything good to deserve Clark's love- yet, Lex knew, without a shadow of doubt, that Clark had always loved- preferred- Bruce. Most days, Lex felt the irrational spear of jealousy infiltrating his thought process .)_

_Understandably, 'deserve' was such a loaded word._

_***_

Despite the relief, Clark feels the ache in his soul. Although the smiles powered him on his day, he feels ragged, worn by humanity's infinite neediness.

Superman the Just. Our Saviour Superman. Reliable Superman. 

They want a piece of him (literally in some cases); they envy him; they want to be him. 

He's never enough.

The Teen Titans initiative explodes in their faces; who gets blamed for the disaster? 

Superman. 

Who never had any side-kick. Who initially voted against the initiative. 

But he can't point fingers; he can't blame the other Justice League members; he'd destroy the last chance for the League to keep its tenuous link between the members.

No. As co-leader of the Justice League, Superman takes the blame. _Has to_. 

And his shoulders do not budge under the new weight of expectations and disappointment. The world can't afford to have him yield.

Superman needs a bath to wash it all off, the disappointment, the expectations and teenagers' death. 

Inside the penthouse's bathroom, he smells his favourite orange-scented, higher than human temperature bath. He gingerly strips himself of his Superman facade and obligations and lets himself sink to the bottom of the bathtub with satisfaction. 

It's perfect. 

Lex knows him too well.

He tries not to let himself fall into his standard spiralling thought of how he doesn't deserve his boyfriend's kind attention.

***

_"Stop wasting my time with your manipulations," Lex snapped more impatiently._

_"I am not manipulating anyone," Bruce smoothly lied, his face appearing too soft for such an asshole._

_Lex glared at him, knowing Bruce knew he knew Bruce was manipulating everyone he encountered. "I know how you operate, Bruce; I've investigated more than a few of your involvements. You narrate them- your victims- such fanciful lies to gain their trust. You tell them how society or people failed them by objectifying them, by ignoring them, by being indifferent or insincere with them. Then, you tell them how they failed society or someone specific. You play those two strings like an expert until they crack. What happened with Miss Martian fits your Modus operandi to a t. I'm not one of your dupes."_

_The other man slightly tilted his head in silent meditation. "I heard about your little investigation, Lex, into your virus evolution problem," Bruce finally admitted._

_(Of course, he did. Even if Lex has no proof, Bruce was the one overseeing it.)_

_"Admittingly, Lex, this is turning out to be a significant danger for humanity," Bruce further supplied._

_(You are the worst kind of danger to humanity, Lex wanted to yell.)_

_"Of course, it is. The Spanish Flu Pandemic killed more people than the First World War; even the grimmest terrorist act ever committed in history pales compared to: epidemics, pandemics and other transmitted diseases," Lex enumerated, annoyed with his interlocutor's alleged ignorance._

_"Yet superheroes, except you, fight off villains, not diseases," Bruce added with a smile. "You invested billions on containing or eradicating major health concerns."_

_He paused and looked outside. "This is your most heroic contribution to humanity."_

_('That's your goal? Undermining my most precious contribution?' Lex thought.)_

_"Is that why you invested in the virus evolution?" Lex sarcastically said._

_Bruce blinked at him. "Lex, I've heard rumours of you being the world's smartest man. Unfortunately, you were never the best detective. You forgot the two most important aspects of crime: motive and means. Who would benefit from the crime? Who has the necessary tools to commit them? If you ask yourself those two questions, the culprit should be self-evident."_

***

Clark lets the water tickle his skin, cleansing him.

Sighing, he shifts again and leans against the bath's side. Here, he can almost forget how unfair the world is. Here, he enjoys the orange fragrance, a smell he associates with Winter holidays. 

His parents used to buy him oranges near Christmas time. Seemingly, this was supposed to confer him enough vitamin C in the middle of wintertime, where, traditionally, people stayed more indoor and ate less fresh fruit. 

Scurvy was no longer a real danger; however, traditions had a way of lasting longer than what was needed. 

...

When would calling Superman become a tradition rather than a necessity?

"Contrary to your delusions, Superman is not necessary," Lex once told him. "The world was surviving without Superman. It can survive without Superman again. You're saving people because you want to, not because you need to. If you want to stop doing it, I'll support you."

Clark falters. 

Out of the two of them, Lex is the real hero. He's the one who keeps saving him. 

Clark should be a better boyfriend; he shouldn't always focus on his issues. 

Pushing himself out of the bathtub, Clark courageously dries himself off, ready to show some much-needed affection to his lover. Lex deserves better than a pity-wallowing and detached person as his lover. He brushes the condensation accumulating on the mirror's surface; he practices a smile; even to his eyes, it looks sardonic rather than romantic or sexy. 

"Come on," he admonishes his reflection, "you can do better. **_I_ ** need to be better." His lips curl in a brittle smile; nonetheless, it's an improvement on earlier. It'll have to do.

Clark tacks the towel on his hips and walks to the bedroom. 

"Lex? Thanks for preparing the bath for me. It was everything I needed-"

Someone lies comfortably in their bed without a shirt. It's not Lex. 

"You're welcome," the man calmly answers, hands behind his head, scars running up his chest and disappearing in his black pants.

Clark's heartbeats grow faster. 

Adrenaline? Lust? Fury? Love? Hatred? All of the Above?

Clark swallows his breath and tries to center himself. He hasn't seen Bruce in months that felt like decades.

The man's eyelashes lower a fraction, hiding part of his gorgeous devil blue eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Clark finally asks, voice wavering under the clash of emotions.

Bruce shrugs. "I was in town."

"What for?"

"I came to visit an old friend."

Clark freezes; his heart thunders. Lex was supposed to be here when Clark came back; Lex was an old friend/enemy of Bruce's; Lex wasn't here. One conclusion quickly forms in Clark's mind. 

"Did you kill Lex?"

"No."

When Clark sends him a suspicious look, Bruce clarifies. "I won't lie to you, Clark." 

And it's true. Bruce never lies to Clark; instead, he omits information. 

"You hate him."

Bruce looks at Clark from behind his eyelashes as if to ask him 'And?'.

"You've always hated him; you keep your grudges close at heart. You had opportunities upon opportunities to do it. Why haven't you killed him yet?"

"You're bold today," Bruce states, chest still as gloriously naked touching Lex's silken sheets. "Usually, you're too scared to ask that kind of question."

Bruce had trespassed into Lex's and Clark's private bedchamber and drawn a bath to Clark's exact preference; nevertheless, he thought Clark was bold. "But it's true," Clark says, feeling weak and stupid. "Even with his technology and my surveillance, I'm sure you could kill him."

"Lex thinks you love me because you don't know what sort of person I am. He thinks you're naive," Bruce remarks, staring at him at his leisure. Clark feels ridiculously exposed in his bedroom with a towel as his only protection.

'But you're not,' Clark understands Bruce means. If he were naive, his first instinct wouldn't have been to accuse Bruce of killing Lex. 

***

_Lex thought about the implications of what Bruce had revealed. Means and Motives._

_Technically speaking, although Bruce had motives to be one step ahead in pathologic warfare against Lex, to a public eye, he didn't have the means to carry his deeds._

_(Bruce did it, that much was unmistakable. Despite the lack of direct boasting, today's meeting was very much about proving his superiority.)_

_Who had the means to help evolve and unleash several deadly viruses or diseases?_

_Lex quickly went through his mental list of pharmaceutical or pathology oriented corporations; monopolies and subsidiaries had reduced their number, barely a handful might have the means._

_Then, it hit him._

_The organization that profited the most from its success in the pathological development; the organization that practically held the monopole of the anti-virus movement; it was none other than Lexcorps._

**Means.**

_(Bruce had the means to infiltrate anywhere, including Lexcorps, to plant evidence. Today's venture proved Lex's inability to keep him out.)_

_Lexcorps' reputation on that front was worth its weight in gold. Internationally renown, universally acclaimed, Lexcorps' shares went up during a pandemic scare._

**Motive.**

_(Bruce's rivalry was with Lex. Lex prized his business and his reputation more than anything except Clark.)_

_Lex scowled at Bruce. "What did you do?"_

_Bruce tilted his head again, a stoic look on his face. "The investigators you hired were so slow to find hints of the wrongdoer. Because I owe you so much, I simply helped them uncover the culprit. We traced it all back to one of your subsidiaries. They received emails and calls from you directly instructing them to evolve various viruses so another of your subsidiaries could test the vaccines' effectiveness. Unfortunately, none of your other subsidiaries were performing that task. Someone bearing your authority released the researchers' most virulent viruses on the public."_

_(Lex understood Bruce's purpose; Lex's actions had to bring about his fall: his researchers, his investigators and his emails and calls.)_

_Bruce must have hacked Lex's emails and phone accounts a long time ago._

_Bruce looked outside again. "They were too scared to confront you. Despite your considerate nature, they thought you would kill them when they handed in your reports."_

_His eyes found Lex with calculated apathy. "I, on the other hand, owe you the courtesy of warning you of the impeding public-relations and legal disaster."_

_Meaning Lex had barely any time until his investigators would go public. His nails were piercing his hands in an attempt to keep calm._

_Bruce gazed at him and gave him a weak- implausible- smile. "Lex, I believe you're innocent."_

_'Because you're the guilty one,' Lex almost roared._

_(He didn't since that's what Bruce wanted. That's how Bruce wins.)_

_The black-haired man rose and offered his hand, which Lex pointedly refused._

_"Good luck with this unfortunate incident. I'll see you around." And he left._

_As soon as he had exited the room, Lex yelled and threw objects off his desk, destroying his priceless Ming vase, his glorious glass made earth globe and his desktop. His overturn coffee mug dripped liquid all over his perfectly clean floor while his phone almost got smashed against the glass outside walls. Lex felt that he could yell himself hoarse; even then, the sticky sensation in his chest wouldn't go away._

_Everything was a mess._

_If Lex managed to prove he had nothing to do with this fiasco, whether accidentally or purposefully, even then, he'd still be the target of suspicion for the rest of his days. The public would doubt his sincerity and his dedication, seeing him as yet another billionaire who abuses the most vulnerable._

_It would hang like a shadow over his every move, forever._

_All it had taken was a few oversights on his part in managing the world's biggest corporation._

_After a few minutes, although his anger hadn't abated, he focused on contacting the right kind of people to prepare for the incoming public-relations nightmare and the potential pandemic._

_***_

"If Lex were to die, within one day, you'd be fucking me," Bruce states. 

Clark tries to look elsewhere than Bruce's well-toned chest or his too shiny eyes; he tries to forget how much he missed him, wants him and despises him for it. "I wouldn't. I'd hate you." 

"Clark, you need to cling to something. Now, that something is Lex."

"Wouldn't it be what you want?" Clark snaps, afraid to examine how valid Bruce's words are. "A willing Kryptonian to dissect? An alien to take your abuse? An experiment in Kryptonian's pain tolerance?"

Bruce slights one eyebrow to shut him up. Clark falls silent; he's veered off-target; Bruce only ever dissects him with eyes and mind, never his body. Some part of Clark is relieved that's the case, some part, more obscure, more repressed, resents the human for the lack of physical contact.

"I love you," Bruce matter-of-factly says. It was the same casual way he might have announced he'd taken over the world or that Metropolis was ugly. 

In Bruce's mind, those words are simply facts. In Clark's mind, it isn't so; it is a simmering nest of desire, guilt and awkwardness. As much as he craves Bruce's words, as much as he understands they are genuine, Clark blanches at them, terrified. 

"Stop saying that when those words mean nothing to you!" Clark yells, tears filling his eyes.

Bruce briefly closes his eyes in hurt. When he opens them again, Clark blocks his ears in vain.

"They mean something, Clark. They always did. It means I'll let you choose how you fall; it means you're the only one I'll ever let destroy me; it means you're the one I'll cut a deal with- if you destroy the world, Clark, I'll be yours-."

Through the hands covering his ears, Clark believes him. 

He wants to refuse his offer; he wants to kill Bruce before the man can destroy any more of his world: to caress until they forget what Superman personifies. 

He wants to drown in Bruce's madness. 

"He's obsessed- fascinated- with the darkness he found in himself," Ollie once warned him. "I know you won't listen, but don't pity him. He'll ruin you for that."

Ollie is wrong about Clark, so is Lex. 

Pity or naivety has very little to do with Clark in regards to Bruce. 

If anything, Bruce's the naive one and the one who pities him for all the wrong reasons. 

For all of Bruce's qualities, he remains the boy with dead eyes who once saw his parents die. A selfless boy with a rattled mind and heart.


	4. Rot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bleak.
> 
> Seriously, this could be the summary of every chapter in this fic except for the prologue. At least, I partly explain why the fic is called "All Heroes Must Die."

Bruce blinks at Clark, his deal still wafting aimlessly between them. God, Clark feels his headache come back with the surge of passions he feels in Bruce's presence.

Instead of responding to Bruce's proposition, Clark focuses on one task, one gloriously easy task- that's how he usually convinces himself to get out of bed almost every day. It wasn't conducive to deal with Bruce while topless- doesn't he always feel naked, vulnerable, anyway when dealing with him?

One foot after the other, he moves to his wardrobe. Pants, underwear and shirt: that's all he needs.

As he picks up his clothes, back turned to Bruce, he asks one of his earliest unspoken questions. "By the way, where's your shirt?"

Bruce does not answer, which in turn doesn't surprise Clark at all. The other man must have used it to staunch an injury or lost it while bypassing security or; he had misplaced it in Clark's and Lex's room to get a reaction out of Lex- which in Clark's opinion was the most likely option.

At one time, newer in his romantic relationship, Clark would have blamed himself (or felt special) with the way Lex and Bruce fought it out, presuming he'd been the reason behind the fights. However, seeing how their quasi-sibling unhealthy relationship had predated Clark's presence in either of their lives, he had soon realized he was a jab each sent against the other in their competitiveness.

Clark sighs, exhausted by the two humans' unstoppability. Without concern with Bruce's eyes lingering on him, he changes his clothes unhurriedly, knowing full well this wasn't the first or the second time Bruce had seen him naked (although Clark was somewhat annoyed he hadn't seen Bruce naked in all of those years- just for fairness' sake).

Now dressed in baggy sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, he looks back at his friend- was he even that?- and throws him a "Go Mets" jersey. Bruce raises one eyebrow in defiance, probably as aware, if not more, the sports team is heavily financed by Lexcorps and Lex Luthor, individually. Clark frowns back: his house his rules.

Rolling his eyes, Bruce almost grimaces as he pulls the Metropolis jersey over his chest. Despite Bruce's preference for black, red somehow humanizes him- although Clark is sure Bruce would look good in virtually anything, even in hot pink.

Wearily, Clark scoops under his bed's sheet, ignoring how Bruce lays back again over the covers beside him. For a time, Clark examines the ceiling he has memorized by heart, relief at being back in his cocoon overriding everything else.

"How's your Ma and Pa enjoying retirement?"

Clark's heart stings with the reminder.

"They aren't," Clark responds. "Even though they can't work on the farm anymore because of their back and heart problems, they'd keep asking to go back home." Home, where they'd lived all their married life, where they'd raised Clark and made a living. Even with the onset of his Ma's debilitating dementia, convincing them to move to a hospice had been hell. His Pa had asked him, point-blank, what he was supposed to do in a hospice when he'd always lived on a farm.

That was the first time Clark had ever seen his father lost, eyes sunken, and mouth open in uncertainty.

That same man had accepted Clark's alienness with barely a grunt.

_Clark is a bad son._

He pushed his parents, highlighted the fact they'd lose the farm anyway in a few years because they wouldn't be able to keep it with their meagre governmental pension.

A week ago, they reluctantly sold their farm, tears in their eyes, and moved to Crampton, hearts full of bitterness at Clark's part in the loss of their independence and their home.

Clark swallows his sadness. Again, he'd been powerless to help them.

"Hn," Bruce responds, clearly reading between the lines.

Eager to change the subject, Clark babbles about his first thoughts. "They say you're always welcome to visit." Since Clark never told them any of Lex's theories, they liked Bruce and his reserved outlook.

"Hn."

Clark buries in his sheets. Closing his eyes, he can almost imagine he and Bruce are stoned teenagers hanging around instead of forty-something adults with low social skills or tolerance.

"Lex thinks you're the one behind the Teen Titans massacre."

"Hn."

Clark listens to Bruce's steady breathing pattern, knowing full well it meant nothing. He should stop here and let himself fall asleep beside Bruce in peace, pretending they were both at peace with their lives. But Clark never learned how to cure his morbid curiosity- he can't do anything but scratch the scab over and over, self-destructiveness at its finesse.

Eyes open. Saliva swallowed.

"Are you?" His voice betrays his frailty.

The answering silence is harsh as if the air has suddenly gone stale.

In true Bruce fashion, the man replies with a question. "Have you ever heard of the League of Assassins?"

"No."

"The League of Assassins," Bruce explains, voice melodious, "was a cult started by a man called Ra's Al Ghul. This man inexplicably found and washed himself in miraculous water that extended his life or resurrected him. Centuries ago, he decided to take over the world for the world's best interests, he claimed. For that purpose, he created a secret organization of trusted assassins, warriors. He'd raised ambitious children endeavouring to inherit his organization."

Dread fills Clark. "Were you one of them?"

"I meant that he raised his biological children for that purpose," Bruce carefully clarifies.

Another non-answer, Clark notes.

"To prove their worth, his children fight each other, hoping their father will name them his rightful heir."

"Isn't he immortal?"

He can almost hear Bruce's amusement in his answer. "You recognize the innate incoherence in his proposition."

"So, this man," Clark deduces, "is an immortal man who makes his children kill each other for his entertainment?"

"That's one way to see it."

There's one yellowish stain on the ceiling. Something must be leaking through the floor. Like everything else, Clark has yet to address the issue with Lex.

"What happens next?" No matter how horrifying the rest of the story is (and knowing Bruce, he knows it's atrocious), he wants to hear the end.

"A whisper falls into the ear of one of Ra's daughters, one of the favourites: killing the other contenders is not enough to show your worth; he'll get more children to fight against you. No, the voice tells her, you have to kill your father. Then, only then, he'll realize you're the chosen heir."

It is easy enough to guess the whispers are Bruce.

"Bruce..."

"Hn?"

"That's sick." And it is.

"He did predispose the situation to turn like that," Bruce breezily answers.

"Yes, but it's still his daughter."

"He trains assassins; he trains his children to kill one another; why would it be a surprise when one of his children kills him?"

"You lead her to her death," Clark argues.

He hears the rustling sound of the sheets and Bruce slips between sheets.

"She challenged her father to a fight," Bruce does not deny, his body heating the same sheets as Clark lays in. "And won. When she- Talia- went to show everyone her father's body, it disappeared into the dark."

Bruce had goaded Talia into killing her father to be worthy of being his successor. Clark guesses, the plan had initially been about resurrecting him with the exceptional waters, however Bruce stole the body.

"You made her kill her father under the pretense that he'd survive," Clark states, thinking the bath's faucet was leaking. Was it somehow connected to the ceiling's leak?

Although the sheets are heating up, Clark feels cold.

"Then?" He couldn't help his curiosity, his desire to learn about Bruce.

"Without Ra's body or guidance, the League splintered into different factions. The children, now armed with the entirety of the League's resources, went at war with one another."

Clark isn't an idiot. He knows where this is heading; where there's a leak, there is rot; rot weakens the structural integrity of the building; if it lasts too long, it can bring down the whole building.

Bruce exploits or creates leaks.

"The League fell on itself, consumed by their cannibalistic instincts."

Clark knows the answer to his question, yet he has to ask it. "Some of them fall at the whispers' hands, don't they? Ra's daughter- Talia?- confronts them, doesn't she?"

The truth lies inertly in the silence between them.

Bruce never admits anything; he only ever implies the answers.

And the League of Assassins was his answer to Clark's question about the Teen Titans' massacre.

At first glance, those two stories differ quite a lot.

Unfortunately, both stories are about a girl looking for her father figure's approval: a girl willing to prove her strength to her peers. Whispers mutter carefully chosen words into her ears; then, they both establish their worth without meaning to get the ultimate results.

Death followed the whispers' presence. Clark knows that.

"Why did the whispers interfere?"

"They only set her on the path to freedom, to find herself without these obsequious requirements to be loved, understood or trusted."

The ceiling's off-white design would be better in solid colour. Clear-cut. Neat. Without ambiguity.

"Bruce, everyone needs to be loved, understood and trusted," Clark says, omitting the 'even you' part.

"They only think they do."

This time, Clark is the silent one.

"There is no merit to be loved, understood and trusted if the person receiving those emotions isn't you, but a mask." Even Clark knows Bruce's talking about him, about Superman and Clark Kent.

_Stop._

"Being yourself is the most important thing, even if nobody can love, understand or trust that person."

_Stop._

"There is no point in playing the hero, Clark, because we both know it's killing you." Kryptonite blades would have hurt less.

_It's not true. Clark is a good son, lover and person. He chose to be a hero._

"I've been a hero for twenty years, Bruce, and I'm not dead."

In his peripheral view, he sees Bruce roll on his side and watching him, pity in his eyes, 'aren't you, though?'

"I'm happy helping people," Clark snarls as he glares at Bruce.

Bruce thankfully does not argue that point.

"I'm fortunate, Bruce, so very fortunate! I have everything I want! I want to be a hero!" Clark yells.

The pity in Bruce's blue eyes burns him to a crisp. Recoiling, Clark crumples in his protective nest.

"I'm smiling, see?" Clark mumbles, tears running along his cheeks.

Lex would have carded his hair while telling him pleasant lies. He'd promise Clark that everything was going to be okay. His parents would have done the same.

_Bruce never lies to him, not even in actions._

Clark pulls the sheets over his head, hiding from the world, as ugly as it is; it's the one they expect him to save again.

"Heroes don't exist; they are born in children's minds and: they must die when the children reach adulthood," Bruce tells him, almost gently. "Adults realize nobody's a hero, that we're all selfish or tribalist. And it's okay to be. That's how humans grow up, Clark; we don't need saviours. We can save ourselves."

Somehow, Clark has no difficulty figuring Bruce's starting point, the seed to this manner of thinking. When both your heroes helplessly die in a dark alley, it signals the end of your childhood, strips you of the belief in heroes. For if heroes existed, wouldn't they have survived evil?

_Bruce is wrong; he's the twisted one, not Clark._

_Clark is a hero._

_Bruce is a lost kid who needs guidance._

Clark heaves back the sheets and looks Bruce in the eyes.

"Why did you push Miss Martian to kill the Teen Titans? Is it another way to get at me?"

Disappointed in Clark's lack of comprehension, Bruce shakes his head. He sighs and removes the sheets from his legs. Pushing himself upright, Bruce takes one last glance at him and walks to the window.

Outside, the birds are chirping; the plants are blooming. The sun highlights all the things Clark used to love about Earth; all the things he now feels unworthy.

"You don't heed what I say," Bruce states as he scowls out. "It's not always about you, Clark... _Sometimes_ , Ollie just doesn't know when to shut up."

Red is Bruce's colour, especially the blood-red colour that's on his jersey. He's gorgeous, sexy, even as he's plotting the Justice League's downfall in Lex's penthouse because Ollie talks too much.

Clark never had enough common sense.

His eyes meet Bruce's; he pleads him to stay.

Despite his jersey's bright colour, Bruce melts in the shadows and leaves. Despite Bruce's self-proclaimed love, he never says goodby.

Clark hates himself for already missing his aloof presence.

Instead of wallowing in self-pity, he clumsily reaches for his cell phone and presses the fourth number on his speed dial list.

"Hey, Clark. What's up?"

"What did you tell Bruce?"

Silence.

"I haven't seen Bruce in a year and a half."

"What did you tell him?" Clark insists, dreading the answer.

"The usual. What's this about?"

"He told me that what happened with the Teen Titans was because you didn't shut up."

Ollie swears. "Clark, I told you not to keep clear of that madman. He's going to drive you mad."

"What did you say to him, Ollie?"

A ping on the other end of the telephone catches his attention. "What's that sound?"

Ollie grunts, "It's my security protocol. I'll just check up on it."

Nervously, Clark listens to Ollie typing something on his computer. Then, a poor quality video seems to start. Without being able to watch, Clark has a hard time determining what he's listening to, though he can hear harsh breathing and some random shuffling.

Suddenly, he hears a familiar voice- one that's hard to pinpoint- say "Fuck Ollie."

There are no gunshots, no explosion, but they might as well be for all the tension on the line. Ollie seems to replay the video from the beginning as Superman hears the same pattern of breathing and shuffling until "Fuck Ollie."

"What are you watching?" a worried Clark asks.

When Ollie speaks, the voice sounds hoarse- as if he had yelled all night-, "Roy. Someone videotaped him overdosing. Someone watched him die, without helping him, and posted it online."

His voice drops to a hiss, "I'll kill him."

"Where's Roy? Maybe he's still alive," Clark replies, already linking the incidents of the Teen Titans massacre, Ollie's words to Bruce and Roy's death.

"He's dead," Ollie says with finality, with a cold fury, Clark has never heard before. There was no denial or confusion in his mind.

Clark swallows thickly.

_Bruce, why do you destroy yourself and others like this? Why must you prove that heroes or saviours don't exist, that we're all deluding ourselves?_

"Do you still want to know what I told him, Clark?" Ollie barks, ferocity in his soul.

_No._

Clark never learns. Even when the news stations dole out awful stories and statistics, Clark can't avert his eyes or block his ears. Even when he knows Bruce is a horrible person, Clark can't seem to stay away.

"I told him," Ollie enunciates deliberately, "that he should stop mentoring children or teenagers because they always seem to die in his care."

Neither spoke another word. There was nothing to say.

Ollie hangs up.

Clark buries himself in his sheets, hating himself for being this weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The previous work in this series, "Who Killed the Lark?", explains why or how the teenagers/children die while in Bruce's care.
> 
> Ollie didn't lie when he said he spoke to Bruce a year and half ago. Bruce just doesn't forget anything.


	5. Citizenship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce reveals his plan.

_In the control room of the Watchtower, J'onn launched the security update. Instead of focusing on the menial task at hand, the Martian was thinking of how quickly things could fall apart, whether on Mars or Earth. Although some had the power to read the signs of an impending crisis, rare were the ones wise enough to change the status quo (who had always worked) in preparation for its event. Again, J'onn had been short-sighted._

_Manning the Watchtower was small repentance for the wrong his protege had wrought on his colleagues._

_Suddenly, J'onn sensed another mind in the room. Cautiously, he rose from his control seat and walked towards the exit. "Who are you that hides in the shadows?"_

_The shadows duplicated itself; one part becoming a man dressed in black, the other remained resolutely unmoving. The man, unafraid, observed him in silence. Even though J'onn had only met the much younger version of this man, he recognized the unimitable face and active mind. Bruce Wayne._

_The tales the others had recounted on his account were varied. Some, like Green Arrow, called him a damned soul; others, such as Alexander Luthor, called him a demon, a monster and; Superman called him a damaged person. In each of their ways, they believed he was the most dangerous human on Earth, one who was hard to grasp within the confinement of the human justice system, harder to imprison if a judge were ever to grant him a jail sentence._

_With the descriptions used by each esteemed members of the Justice League, J'onn should have been disappointed by the appearance of a man in flesh and blood with no weapons on hand and no destructiveness nor anger in his gaze, seemingly with no intention to attack the Watchtower or J'onn. Superficial appearances had not deceived J'onn._

_At a more profound glance, it was clear the man had replaced the wildest of youth by impassivity and self-confidence. Furthermore, his gaze seemed to have the power to read a person's future. Delusional or not, this was not a man who could be dealt with lightly._

_So, J'onn offered him a breuverage._

_"Mr. Wayne, would you like a cup of coffee?"_

_There was the tiniest flicker of surprise before an amused smile graced the man's lips. "Why not."_

_Walking not quite together, they went to the Watchtower's kitchen where J'onn prepared, under the watchful gaze of Bruce, a cup of coffee._

_Finally, when the coffee was ready, J'onn poured his guest a cup and poured himself a glass of milk. He sat opposite the human. Now, they could have a rational conversation._

_"Mr. Wayne, may I ask why you have come to visit me?" That's the only reason J'onn could think of his 'mistake' of being caught._

_The human tilted his head in contemplation. "I came to give you advice," he finally said._

_"What advice?" J'onn was more than a little curious about the man's motivations to advise a being he had only met once twenty years ago._

_"I recommend you leave Earth with Miss Martian."_

_The worse thing, according to J'onn, about the statement was that it wasn't even a threat or blackmail. Just advice._

_It took him a few moments to answer. "I cannot do that, Mr. Wayne. Earth is my home."_

_"Eartheans will kill you if you stay," the man casually replied._

_"I do not believe they will."_

_The human shook his head. "For such a rational being, you are naive. Being an alien is enough to get you killed. Being an alien_ **_and_ ** _being a human murderer's mentor is more than enough reason to kill you."_

_"The people of Earth have welcomed me to their planet according to their customs," J'onn responded._

_The human gave him a look._

_"Martian, Superman and you overcompensate. You both subconsciously know you can't do any missteps. At the first sign of trouble, they can and will revoke your Earth citizenship; they'll exile you from the planet or kill you because, no matter how long you've lived here, you weren't born here and; they remember it. So, you both lived your life, looking over your shoulder in fear of deportation or rejection, even if you saved enough lives to earn citizenship. You both knew you couldn't afford to make any mistakes, that you couldn't make any controversial decisions. You're aliens. The others: Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, Flash, Green Arrow, Aquaman and Lex Luthor aren't. No matter how many people any of them directly kills, like half of them have done, nobody can exile them from Earth. When it comes time to judge whether they deserved prison, the jury rationalizes their contribution to humanity and, they are, incidentally, found not guilty. Eartheans aren't good nor just; that's a fact. They've seen Miss Martian's behaviour as your mistake. They'll continue to clamour for your and Miss Martian's death or exile. If it lasts too long without satisfaction, they'll ask Superman to suffer the same fate as his fellow aliens."_

_J'onn took his time to gather his thoughts. Finally, he told the human: "The Justice League still needs me."_

_Mr. Wayne shook his head. "Soon, there will be no Justice League."_

_"They have prevailed through every crisis."_

_"External crisis," the human clarified, "solidified their resolves."_

_J'onn had to admit the human's distinction was important. It was easier to rally forces against an external threat than an internal one._

_"The Justice League has been weak from the start," the human continued. "There was no coherent mission or vision; no consistent rules and; very little cohesion behind the simplistic rhetoric of good vs evil. The League's downfall has been a long time coming."_

_J'onn could feel the truth within the words, however, he was not one to be misled by an enemy. "Wouldn't it be possible that the League will grow stronger, strengthened by this ordeal?"_

_Bruce Wayne sipped his coffee, considering J'onn's words. "Were you all made of sterner convictions, it might."_

_***_

"Clark," Lex Luthor whispers as he cards his hair, "It'll be alright."

The Kryptonian looks at him, sadness etched in his face, "Lex. I can't do this anymore."

"Can't do what?"

Clark swallows and averts his gaze. "I can't be Superman anymore," he mumbles.

As much as Lex had wanted Clark to say those words years ago, he suddenly feels hollow at the declaration. Despite the stress associated with being a superhero, Clark had thrived on helping others.

"Why?" he asks in a non-judgmental fashion.

"I don't have any hope left to give." Clark's gaze grows glassy as he buries himself in the sheets, angry and sad that he'd abandon his duty and his people.

"I understand."

Lex caresses Clark's shoulders, his hollowness slowly making a place for a desire to raze the man responsible for all of Clark's and Lex's problems.

Consequences be damned, Bruce needed to die.

***

_The human finished his coffee and politely washed it in the sink._

_"Was that all you wanted to tell me?" J'onn asked the strange man._

_"Yes."_

_"May I ask you a question?"_

_The man pondered the question before nodding._

_"Why did you give me that advice?"_

_"I may have some ulterior motive," the human admitted, "But I also think it would be in your best interest to accept my advice. Miss Martian's life is at stakes too; humans would love to tear her apart."_

_"Why would you think of my best interest?"_

_"You're one of the rare beings who aren't annoying," Bruce Wayne didn't quite answer seriously._

***

Hal unlocks his front door after a prolonged intergalactic mission. His need for sleep and food takes over his brain cells. He had dreams of his bed, his soulmate, for weeks. Now, finally, they'd be reunited in a scene worthy of a cheesy romantic comedy; Hal was ready to cry and promise he'd never let them go again.

However, as soon as he walks inside, his cell phone rings. Ollie's name appears on the caller id.

F*ck life!

"Ollie, can't this wait? I just came back from a mission."

Hal falls quiet, his mouth widened in horror and shock. "Are you sure?"

He rubs his eyelids. "I'm sorry he's dead. What can I do to help?"

"Ollie, I'm serious."

He seems exasperated at his interlocutor. "Don't do anything stupid. I'm coming over."

He pauses, then nods, almost falling asleep on his feet.

"Ollie, I repeat, don't do anything stupid." He hangs up the phone and sets it on the table.

One second, he is whole and tired. The next, blood is surging from his neck from a knife wound.

He clutches his neck as someone removes the knife from his neck. In a panic, he tries to use his ring. He can't.

He looks at his hand and sees he's missing a finger, a fact he couldn't possibly have avoiding feeling were it not for the severed neck.

Hal tries to staunch the blood flow from his neck, tries to see his adversary and tries to find his missing finger and ring.

A black figure wields two knives- Hal blurrily recognizes them as his- and a ringed finger.

Maybe Hal should wonder who his aggressor is. Instead, he's just trying to keep his blood from running out of his neck.

Seconds later, Hal's dead.

The black figure uses his gloves to open the man's cellphone and to listen to the first voice mail.

_"Hal, this is Lex speaking. You should have already heard the transmission before coming home. However, should they have malfunctioned for some reason, your life may be in danger. Call me as soon as you can."_

If there was anyone else in the room, they would have been surprised that Bruce's smile reached his eyes. It wasn't about killing people; Bruce didn't enjoy it as such. It wasn't only about revenge because Hal once copied and decrypted Bruce's journal and provided it to Lex. No, it was about completing his self-appointed challenge.

Already, Bruce could see them reverting to their tribalism and selfishness. The Amazon and Atlantean returned home, to explain why they lost their two protegees to their ally's protege. Meanwhile, despite their resolve against killing, Ollie and Lex would try to kill Bruce, losing sight of the higher standard of justice the Justice League members were supposed to emulate. Clark was too depressed to help anyone; Bruce had removed wildcard Hal Jordan and seeded doubt in J'onn's rational mind; Flash would follow Central City's citizens' requests.

There would be no more lies about selfless heroes; each of them would protect their own only.

***

_"J'onn," Bruce had told him before he left, "Humans aren't good. Despite their self-proclaimed love for the mystic good, humans are always someone else's villain."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left!
> 
> Miscellaneous information:  
> For those who haven't read A (Small) Grudge, present time J'onn, Superman and Hal Jordan travel twenty years in the past and meet past Bruce Wayne, Oliver Queen and Lex Luthor. Hal Jordan steals Bruce Wayne's journal in the past to copy the information in his ring and decode it. In this version of events (All Heroes Must Die), Hal passes on the information to Lex Luthor. In both fics, Bruce knows Hal stole his journal because he took the fingerprints left on the journal. In this fic, he waits more than twenty years to kill Hal because he can't cause a time paradox (younger him met older Hal, so Hal has to live that long).
> 
> Although I wrote the following excerpt to use in this chapter, unfortunately, it didn't fit in Bruce's conversation with J'onn J'onzz:
> 
> "When the veil drops from your face, you can't do anything but notice the monsters around you. You can chase them, bludgeon them to death or hide; it won't stop them. One day, you'll look in the mirror; you'll find the monster staring back at you."


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ollie is preparing for his hunt.

Ollie's spade splits the soil as Ollie heaves another pile of dirt at his sides. Perspiration adheres to his shirt and pants, gliding in his body's indentations, cooling his much too warm body. Somehow, every time Ollie comes here, each indelible in its twisted way, the humidity drags him down, frustrates him despite his discipline, enrages him against this place's injustice.

There was a more efficient way of doing this, Ollie thinks, knee-deep in the dirt, at night, in a private cemetery. Nowadays, they don't even dig the graves with spades but with heavy machinery; maybe it's fitting since Ollie uses a bow and arrows to fight off the heavily armed criminal.

However, tonight is not about style or preferences.

**This is personal.**

Ollie shoves another pile of dirt aside, intent on his purpose. As he lowers the spade again in his hole, he finally hits his goal. Ollie jumps in the hole and dusts the finely handcrafted casket's facade. Has it been thirty years since it last touched a live human?

Once, a very long time ago, upon these very same grounds, Ollie had pitied Bruce, the boy who lived, a parallel to Harry Potter's mythology Gotham had been quick to affix on the blue-eyed survivor. Ollie snorts as he thinks how wrong they'd all gotten it: Bruce was a damned soul upheaving this world's order, not, as so many had hoped, Gotham's saviour.

Ollie touches the casket's sturdy wood for one last second. Then, with a pulley, he removes it from the ground as he had done with the twin version of this casket. Carefully, he loads it like a merchandise crate in the truck he had bought specially for this purpose.

Ollie stares at the empty holes he had dug in Wayne's cemetery.

He had hoped he'd feel regret or shame of disturbing the dead from their sleep. Instead, all he felt was uncontainable wrath and the cautious focus of a hunter preparing its bait for its formidable quarry.

Sometimes, when an animal had gotten the taste of human flesh, hunting parties had to be organized to destroy the threat before it struck again.

Too long, the Justice League had refused to consider this quarry a cunning animal rather than a human. Too long, they had dithered about proof and lack of information. Too long, they'd been on the defensive, waiting for the villains to act before reacting.

No more, Ollie swears as he glances guardedly at the defunct Wayne Manor.

Roy Harper didn't deserve to die like a dog in Gotham, driven to despair by a madman's mind games.

'Fuck Ollie,' his ward had said as he laid dying as if prescribed by someone's invisible strings. It hadn't taken long for police officers to arrive at Ollie's door, asking some embarrassing questions about Roy's evident condemnation of Ollie before his premature death.

"Were you on good terms with him? What was he doing in Gotham? Did you have anything to do with his death?"

_It depended._  
_I don't know._  
_My actions led to his death._

When they'd told him about the body, Ollie had discovered someone had stolen everything, even Roy's precious bow and arrows and his clothes. Perhaps a corollary of the video's posting, perhaps a madman's joke.

Roy had been the quickest archer Ollie had ever known and one of the best people Ollie had ever seen.

_"Will I ever be like you?" Roy had once asked, nervously._

_Ollie had laughed and clasped his shoulder._

_"Kid, you'll be better than me, I promise. You're already a better person than I am. When I was your age, everyone and everything pissed me off. Despite all you've seen, all you've lived through, you're wiser, kinder than I ever was."_

_Roy's eyes had shone at the praise; he leaned in Ollie's grip. Unwilling to let the serious moment linger, Roy had grinned and said, "I'll certainly find a cooler superhero name: Green Arrow is lame."_

_"It's not that bad!"_

_"You use fists arrows."_

_"I'll let you know it is surprisingly useful. Besides, that started as a joke. That one time, Hal, Dinah and I were drinking..."_

Hal.

Hal, confusion in his face, who had his throat slashed in his own house...

Hal, a loyal friend, who once went on a country-wide road trip to cheer him up...

Ollie had received Hal's cellphone by personal service. It was in itself a clear enough message.

Ollie sits in the truck and shifts into driving mode.

He tunes his radio to a heavy metal program, something he had never liked, glares at the abandoned manor on top of the nearby hill for one second and drives off.

He had picked up the bait. Now, he just needed to follow Lex's plan and trap their quarry. As much as they didn't get along anymore, Ollie wasn't stupid enough to refuse Lex's help.

This animal had tasted blood too often to ever be released in the wild again.

Ollie would have to be the one to put him down, a much kinder fate than he deserved. However, any other solutions gave this animal too much leeway to retaliate or escape.

One-shot to the head. That's all it will take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos! They keep motivated to continue posting stories.
> 
> I will eventually write the follow-up part of this series: Ollie and Lex hunting down Bruce. I'm just not sure when. 
> 
> Here's some of my inspiration for this version of Ollie.
> 
> (1) Justice League: Cry for Justice; after Martian Manhunter and Batman are killed (though Batman is only lost in time, but nobody knows that yet), Ollie and Hal decide it's time to go on the offensive and capture criminals before they have time to enact their plans. At one point in time, Ollie is ready to kill a villain.
> 
> (2) As for Ollie's treatment of Roy, it's inspired by Snowbirds Don't Fly in which Roy suffers from drug addiction and Ollie doesn't exactly get a parent of the year award. 
> 
> I have some issues with both Justice League: Cry for Justice and Snowbirds Don't Fly, however they work well as inspiration.
> 
> I was also inspired with the Tower of Babel Justice League issue for the "kidnap Bruce's parents' caskets" plan.


End file.
